


Let the Waters Pass Over You (Let the Fire Burn Bright)

by Kako_Pumpkin



Category: Arrow (TV 2012), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, some strong language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-10-13 00:35:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10502760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kako_Pumpkin/pseuds/Kako_Pumpkin
Summary: Laurel is in Keystone for a fairly crappy work conference, and meets Mick in a bar. Unexpectedly, emotions happen. And then, less unexpectedly, some fire.(If the Vikings knew anything, it was how to go out instyle.)Features swearing, angst, illegal fireworks, and, in the end...maybe a little closure, after all these years spent hurting. Laurel+Mick.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [misscrazyfangirl321](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=misscrazyfangirl321).



> This story was inspired in two parts: Firstly, by the [Mick Rory Defense Club,](https://mickrorydefensesquad.tumblr.com/) where I first saw the request, and secondly, by [misscrazyfangirl321](https://misscrazyfangirl321.tumblr.com/), who gave me some direction when I expressed an interest. I have a lot, a _lot_ of love for Mick Rory, and it's only grown as time goes by. It's also technically my first time writing him (I have a LOT fic in the works, but that won't be released for a bit), so I hope I've done him justice. I've got a special place in my heart for Laurel too - both these characters deserved a lot more than what they were given.
> 
> So...I hope you all enjoy. Here's to the underappreciated.

Laurel glared at her shot glass.

“Get into _law,”_ she griped at it, swiping the glass and downing its contents with barely a shudder. “You’ll be able to _help people._ As _if._ Buncha stupid, self-absorbed – excuse me, can I have another? Please. Oh, _thank_ you.”

The barkeep set another shot down in front of her, with absolutely no judgment. The woman must have been used to bright-eyed lawyers-in-training who had signed up to the annual Starling Legal Society Conference, hoping for insights into how to save the world, and getting a sour taste of reality instead. To add insult to injury, it was being held this year in _Keystone_ of all places, so she couldn’t even slink back to her own apartment and drink like an angry loser in the comfort of her own home. 

“Law’s a _people_ area,” said Laurel, sniping at her new shot. “If you want to _help_ people, if you like _socialising_ and _helping_ and _communicating –”_

She downed the shot, slamming it down on the bar top and shuddering again. Without speaking, the barkeep set down another shot. Laurel blinked.

“Oh, uh – sorry – I didn’t order –” she tried, but zipped her lips when the barkeep gave her a fixed look.

“It’s on the house,” said the woman, nodding to the shot. Laurel grimaced.

“I look that bad, huh?” she asked. The barkeep shook her head.

“Let’s just say you’re not the first trainee I’ve seen fresh from the SLSC,” she said. “And you won’t be the last, either.”

Laurel lifted the shot and saluted the woman with it. The barkeep rolled her eyes, but there was a little smile there too, so Laurel smiled in return and knocked the shot back. Then she shuddered.

“Guh,” she said, shaking her head. There was a snort to her side, and Laurel’s gaze snapped over to where a man was watching her from the corner of his eye, beer tilted towards his mouth. He looked amused, and Laurel glared at him – sure, the guy was huge and mean-looking, but Laurel had been putting up with condescension all evening and she had no patience for the same from a total stranger.

“See something funny?” she snapped.

“Nah,” replied the guy, not in the least bit intimidated. “Somethin’ kinda cute, though.”

Her hackles rose, but before she could fire off any half-dozen retorts, the guy just snorted again, putting his beer down and giving her his full attention.

“Not like that, kid,” he said. “I don’t like ‘em so young. I mean your attitude. It’s adorable.”

“Adorable?” said Laurel, equal parts offended and suspicious. “What do you mean, _adorable?”_

The guy grinned sharply. “I mean that I never get sick’a newbie lawyers realisin’ that the law is _bullshit.”_

Laurel paused.

“…the law isn’t bullshit,” she said slowly, still suspicious. But the guy just shrugged, turning back to his beer.

“Sure it is,” he said, and Laurel caught sight of the beginnings of another grin on his face. She narrowed her eyes, leaning over to him, even though they were separated by a couple of chairs.

“It is _not,”_ she insisted.

“Yeah, it is,” he replied easily, and took a swig of his beer. She opened her mouth for another retort, but he added: “What else has got you so hopped up?”

Laurel opened her mouth, then closed it again. She sat back begrudgingly, and the guy grinned; one point to him, and they both knew it.

“That conference is garbage,” she said eventually. “That doesn’t mean the _law_ itself is garbage.”

“The law is the people who make it,” the guy replied. “So if the people who make it are garbage, that means the law is garbage too.”

“It’s not that simple,” Laurel disagreed. She thought back to her classmates, her lecturers, _herself._ “Some of the people –”

“Like those people at the conference?”

Laurel growled. “Okay, so some of them were – out of touch a little –”

“How many called you sweetheart?”

_“None,”_ bristled Laurel.

“Okay,” said the guy. “How many told you they could use ‘a girl like you’ in their office?”

“It wasn’t _like_ that!” she burst out, except that it kinda _had_ been. Nothing she could put her finger on, of course; just the lingering sensation that nobody was taking her _seriously._ No-one was talking about human rights, or the atrocities happening on their doorstep. It was a huge networking event, which Laurel had expected, had anticipated, but the amount of high-flying lawyers and judges – people she had learned about in college, had attended court with – were completely distant. It hadn’t been a gathering of the finest legal minds of Starling and Keystone; it had been a drinking fest, where work was never mentioned.

Laurel had spent a hundred and fifty bucks on a ticket for a conference where people whose brains she held in high esteem spent the whole night telling her she was naïve to believe in a better world, and that she should relax and _drink_ more.

Why was it even _called_ a conference? Just call it a gala! Why hold workshops if none of the speakers had any first-hand knowledge in the area, or who were only interested in getting their pockets lined? Laurel had known that being a lawyer was like being in a business – bills had to be paid, after all – but she hadn’t expected everyone she’d spoken to just…give up on a higher calling, because it was too _hard._ She hadn’t expected everyone she’d met to treat her like a little child who had yet to learn that nothing _mattered –_

She realised that she’d been silent for too long, her head in her hand, staring at her empty shot glass. The guy was watching her, and she could tell from one look that he could see the train of thought going through her head. But instead of getting mad, she just smiled weakly, pushing the shot glass around the counter with her other index finger.

“Somebody offered me a job,” she said quietly, on impulse. “Some firm in Metropolis. Said it was mine, if I wanted it.”

The guy’s eyebrows rose, and he lifted his beer, tilting it towards her.

“Congrats, kid,” he said. “You gonna take it?”

Laurel was silent. She…she didn’t know. Why wasn’t she jumping at the chance? It was the opportunity of a lifetime. A big firm, a good salary, a chance to get away from Starling, get away from the messiness of everything –

“I don’t know,” she said, voice still faint. Her fingers pressed at her mouth as she frowned. “I…I don’t know. Something’s…”

She sighed. The guy just waited another few seconds before sitting back and downing the last of his beer. When he was done he set the bottle down on the counter with a noisy clack, waking her up a bit. She looked up; he was watching her with one eyebrow raised.

“All right,” he said. “So, who pissed you off?”

Laurel blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Who pissed you off?” he repeated. “I could key their car. Smash in a window. Keep it subtle, yanno?”

She snorted, covering her mouth with her hand and shaking her head. She remembered a certain High Court Judge, drunk and telling Laurel that it was ‘so wonderful’ to see ‘young women’ join the profession, and that they always looked ‘so well dressed’ even though it was against court etiquette to wear ‘flattering clothes’…a sudden vision came to mind of the same man, stumbling out the hotel the next morning, trying to unlock his car and not realising that someone had keyed a dick on the side of his BMW…

She couldn’t help herself. She sniggered into her palm, turning her head away a little. When she glanced back, the guy looked pleased, like he was happy that he’d actually made her _laugh._ That was…kinda nice. The look on his face took a few years off him, and he straightened up, grinning at her.

“Oh, you like that idea, huh?” he said, even as Laurel tried to regain some composure. “You got somebody in mind? We could steal their car, send it off the pier or somethin’…”

Laurel laughed behind her hand. That wasn’t funny. _That wasn’t funny –_

That was a little bit funny. The cartoon image of the judge, freaking out at the edge of the pier, screaming nonsense as he struggled to understand why bad things happened to good people, queue the tiny violins –

“Thanks,” drawled Laurel, managing to control herself. She drew up her spine, setting her shoulders and giving him a haughty look that only served to amuse him further. “But I don’t think I feel much like grand theft auto tonight.”

He titled his head, side-eyeing her as he seemed to mull her over; not just her statement, but _everything_ – her nice suit, her dark circles, the empty shot glass in front of her.

“No?” he said.

“No,” replied Laurel decisively.

“Hmm.” He seemed to bite the inside of his mouth, thinking hard until his face cleared. “What ‘bout other things that might be fun?”

Laurel looked at him, suspicious all over again.

“…like what?” she asked, cautiously.

“Well…how ‘bout illegal fireworks?” the guy asked, and Laurel _stared._

~~~~~

The guy’s name was Mick, Mick Rory. He was _definitely_ a criminal – Laurel knew what one looked like after years of meeting her Dad at the precinct, and it had nothing to do with appearance. It was all in the way he walked, the way he held himself, the way his eyes went to each exit and corner of the room every couple of minutes. But despite his size, and his shaved head, and the multitude of scars across his fingers, Laurel wasn’t scared of him. There were all kinds of men – some were obviously suspicious, and others ticked all the boxes for a perfect date, but still set off a little, almost silent warning in the back of her mind that made her hesitate. She’d had dates like that, had men like that try to buy her a drink, only to press too hard with a smile that got stiffer and stiffer the more she’d said no.

Mick Rory didn’t give her those vibes. On the contrary, she felt unusually confident as they walked out of the bar; some little subconscious tingle inside her was pushing her along, making her feet light. But still, she wasn’t entirely stupid – she had mace, a taser, her car keys, and a number of judo moves she’d learned in a self-defence class she’d gone to as a teenager when her Dad had insisted that she and S-

Her feet stopped abruptly, frozen to the ground.

She was standing at the edge of the sidewalk, right outside a banged up brown car. Mick paused at the driver’s side, raising an eyebrow at her.

“Second thoughts?” he said. She shook herself and gave him an airy toss of her head, flicking her hair back over her shoulder as she walked over to the passenger side.

“Just promise me you’re not an axe-murderer,” she said, yanking open the door. He snorted.

“Nah,” he replied, getting into the car and slotting in the key. “Ain’t my style.”

She stared as he started the engine and he caught her expression, huffing a little and rolling his eyes.

“Not what I meant,” he amended. “I ain’t a creep, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Laurel still hesitated at the door of the car. That wasn’t what she was worried about. What was she worried about?

“Just…” She shook her head. “Promise me.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Promise me,” she insisted.

“I promise I ain’t an axe murderer,” he said, slowly, holding her eye. “Or a creep. We’re gonna blow shit up at the beach, that’s all. Scouts honour.”

Laurel blew out a sigh and sat into the car, sharply closing the door.

“You were _never_ a Scout,” she said decisively, and Mick snorted, pulling away from the curb.

“Wow, kid,” he replied. “Really puttin’ that degree to use, I see.”

“Hey!” she exclaimed, but it was token protest, really; she could see his half-grin in the dim light, and couldn’t find it in her to be offended. Not when it was so clearly some gentle ribbing to help with the atmosphere. “Well, if we get arrested, you’ll be pretty glad there’s some legal counsel on hand to help you out.”

Mick just laughed at that. “Don’t worry, kid. We won’t get caught.”

She raised her eyebrow. “Oh yeah? How do you know that?”

He just glanced at her, smiling sharply.

“Trust me,” was all he said. “This is just gonna be a _nice_ time, out at the beach. No drama, no bullshit.”

“Sounds good,” said Laurel, leaning her head back and staring out the window. It was hard to see anything, really; it was so dark outside. The lights that were on only made it harder to see, blurring everything together until it was a mess of shadows and brightness, indecipherable. “So where’s this beach?”

“You’ll see,” he said. “Just sit tight. You’re gonna _love_ this, kid.”

~~~~~

“Mick!”

“Yeah?”

_“Mick!”_

_“What.”_

“This is insane!” Laurel hissed at him as she followed, trying to pull her coat shut against the cold while also trying not to lose her footing. “I am _not_ loving this!”

They hadn’t gone to the normal beach in the end – _oh,_ no. No, no, no, no. When Mick had said _the beach,_ apparently he meant the _private,_ highly fenced-off section, where reams of yachts were tethered next to a strip of so-called beachfront. It was the wrong time of year for the rich and famous to holiday, so at least there was a good chance that they wouldn’t be spotted, and Mick had paid off the security guard at the gate while Laurel had sunk into her seat, hand masking her face. So they were covered on that angle – but being caught out _here_ would spell a hell of a lot more trouble than if they had gone _literally_ anywhere else. The public beach was less than half a click away, but _here’s_ where they were going to set off _fireworks,_ apparently, because Laurel obviously needed to suffer for actually trying to be spontaneous for once in her life.

She shivered. Her coat was pulled tight around her, the buzz was wearing off, and she was _freezing._ They were right by the ocean front, and she couldn’t even stick her hands in her pockets because they were too busy carrying her damn six inch heels – _why_ was she even wearing them to the conference? The sand was icy, kinda mostly filled with pebbles, and the hulk of man she’d decided it was a _totally good idea_ to go to an isolated area with was currently rummaging around a box he’d pulled from the trunk of his car on the walk over.

“Seriously, why did I even agree to this?” Laurel shook her head, staring out into the ocean. The crash of the waves, unseen in the impenetrable darkness of the night, suddenly flipped her stomach.

She hadn’t been to the beach in…about three years. It….had been three years, already, since she lost the love of her life, in every way possible. Emotionally, physically…she still hadn’t sorted through the feelings left over when she found out that Sara had been on that ship. The…the _confusion._ The betrayal. The _horror._

Why did she do it? Why did she _do_ it? Was she listening to the waves when it happened? Was she looking out at the sea, like Laurel was right now? Was it night time – was she _frightened?_

…had she known she was dying?

Laurel jumped when a sharp peal let out close by her – Mick had let loose one of the littler fireworks. It fizzled out close to the shoreline, blindingly bright, lighting up the white rim of the ocean for a brief moment. The startle it gave her made her wobble in the sand, and with the uneven ground, Laurel found herself flailing, and then, falling over. Her shoes went flying out of her hands and she hit the ground like a ton of bricks, right on her tailbone, and gave a little cry of surprise – from the firework and the shock of falling both. In the meantime, Mick had let off a few more; searing white, flitting in uneven spurts. He laughed, gently, and she was surprised by the sound; like somebody so big and so mean-looking could ever do something gentle.

She sniffed. He let off a few more, these ones lasting a little longer and going a little higher, and then he walked back over to her, his boots crunching in the gritty sand. He eased his way to the ground, sitting next to her and radiating such heat that she automatically leaned in closer.

“Keystone beach ain’t much to look at, I know,” he said. “But damn, anything’ll look good with fireworks. Once I set off the bigger rockets, the water’ll look real pretty, too.”

She sniffed again, her head turned to the invisible ocean, unbearably loud. It was like cymbals crashing in her ears, unavoidable, supremely uncaring of the sensation it was building up in her heart and soul. The noise washed into her, furiously cold, dislodging the detritus of her emotions; the sensation washed up her throat and out of her mouth, pulling her most secret, most fearful words with it.

“My sister is buried there,” she said. “Out there. In the sea. I’ll never say goodbye.”

And then her voice cracked, and she was openly crying, burying her head in her knees. Each sob was a pang in her chest, increasing the pressure in her head until she could barely breathe. All around her was the sound of the water; she couldn’t escape it –

Without warning, a large arm came around her shoulders and tugged her sharply to the side. She startled, then realised that Mick – Mick was _hugging her._ Sure, he was determinedly staring out at the sea and not at all looking at her, but his arm was strong around her shoulders, and his side was warm and sheltered her from the breeze. Even from that slight heat she could feel sensation returning to her limbs, and honestly…it was the most human she’d felt in a long, long time.

…about three years, in fact.

She still couldn’t stop crying. But the tears were less heavy, and the pressure in her head dropped off, even as she continued sobbing, now curled into Mick’s side. Meanwhile his arm stayed strong around her, and he stayed silent as she wept. Finally, when her sobs had turned to half-hiccups and the tears seemed to be petering off, he spoke.

“I never went to their funerals,” he said. Laurel sniffed loudly, rubbing her eyes with her sleeve.

“What?” she asked. “Whose funerals?”

Mick chewed on his answer for a while, kind of looking like he regretted speaking at all. But then he answered, face still turned out towards the ocean.

“My family’s,” he said. “My parents. My siblings. They died in a house fire, when I was a teenager.”

Laurel’s mouth dropped open, fresh tears rising in her eyes and falling in quick succession down her cheeks.

“Oh my god,” she said, choked up. “I’m so sorry. That’s so terrible. Oh, Mick…I’m sorry.”

He shrugged; although the movement squishing her slightly, she said nothing and continued to curl around his side. After a moment, she spoke again.

“Why…why didn’t you go to their funerals?” she asked. Mick took in a breath; in anybody else, she might’ve said it was hesitance.

“I was in juvie,” he replied, gruffly.

“…juvie?”

“…was my fault. I burned the house down.”

Laurel’s mouth dropped open. Mick exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders; Laurel was gently moved to the side as he drew his arm away, noticeably putting a couple of inches distance between them. On impulse, she reached out, pressing her hand against his arm.

“Don’t,” she said, unsure of how she was going to finish the sentence. _Don’t move away from me,_ she wanted to say, but she wasn’t sure how’d he’d take that, or even what she really meant by it.

“Don’t what?” he said. His voice had a definite closed-off tone to it, and she gripped his arm tighter.

“I don’t know,” she replied. “I just – I tell you my sister was killed at sea, and you tell me your family died in a fire you started. This is _shit._ This is shit.”

She scrubbed at her face. When she managed to suck in a deep breath and lift her head again, he was looking at her with a frown on his face and his brow drawn down; not angrily, but sort of confused, like he didn’t understand her reaction. It made her want to cry again; the guy’s _family_ died and he was thrown into juvie afterwards, how was that not shit? Was he that unused to sympathy?

“How old were you?” she continued. His expression shut down, and he turned away again.

“Old enough,” he replied.

“How _old?”_ she insisted.

“Old _enough._ What’s with the interrogation alluva sudden? Gotta know the gory details?”

_“Mick._ Haven’t you talked to anybody about this before?”

He growled. “How easy is it supposed to be to talk about that crap? I had enough of that bullshit with shrinks pullin’ me apart, tryna dissect where the bad in me started.”

“That’s not the way therapy’s supposed to work,” Laurel said, horror slowly rising in her. Mick grunted again.

“Yeah, well…that’s somethin’ ya learn from being a criminal. You can have the perfect plan, the only problem is the _people._ ‘S not like I ever thought they were interested in helpin’ me. Jus’ wanted to pick me apart and throw out what was left. _Nobody_ wanted me when I was a kid. An’ I didn’t need _them.”_

For all his tough words, however, Mick wasn’t looking at her. Laurel’s hands started to rub the back of her head, trying to assuage the headache that was threatening to start. But then, quietly, Mick spoke again, his words almost being swallowed by the crash of the ocean.

“All they wanted me to say was that I felt bad about it,” he said. “My whole family died, and they poked and pulled at me until I said what they wanted to hear – that I _felt bad._ ‘Course I felt bad. I wasn’t a monster. Not then. I was _scared_ of bein’ a monster. Then the second I started showin’ I had _feelin’s,_ alluva a sudden they start backtrackin’.” His fingers clenched the sand again, and he shook his head sharply, like he was trying to shake off a wasp. Laurel just watched, unable to speak. Eventually he kept going, like a stone that was rolling down a mountain, too fast and heavy to stop.

“They didn’t wanna hear that I was sorry, that I know I did wrong, I fucked up.” He was snarling now, and Laurel watched his face twist from bad memories, captivated by the pure emotion she was witnessing. “God forbid I had _feelin's,_ that I showed ‘em I was just a _kid._ They couldn’t handle that. They needed a monster. They needed a reason five kids and their parents were dead. Pinned all kinds of words on me, so I’d fit their profiles, and they’d get to write their papers. And the whole time they treated me like I’d never felt bad, that I’d never regretted it, like the fire was _it,_ all I was.”

He paused, chest heaving. Now he looked down, away – ashamed. Laurel gripped his arm, half to make contact with him, and half to hide the fact that her hands were shaking.

“I can’t decide if I should feel guilty for hating my dead sister or not,” said Laurel, low, and in a rush. The words came up from an unconscious part of her soul, colliding with her thoughts until they could only fall out, uncensored, and she pulled at Mick until he faced her.

“She was on that boat with my boyfriend,” she continued, nails now digging grooves into Mick’s arm; she was sure there must have been marks, even through all the layers of clothing he was wearing. Now he was staring at her openly, eyes dark. The wind picked up suddenly, and she shivered.

“She was on that boat with my boyfriend,” Laurel continued, low. She pulled her coat closer to herself. “I was so in love with him. I thought he was the one…we were going to move in together. But the whole time, she was – and _he_ was – and now they’re both _dead!”_

Putting one hand to her face, Laurel turned to the sea, the noise of its crashing waves pulling at her again. She couldn’t seem to keep shaking; her throat was too tight, and her head was beginning to hurt again. There were so many things she wanted to say. So many things she wanted to keep hidden, denied – forever.

“I was seventeen,” said Mick, quietly. Laurel glanced at him from the corner of her eye, but he wasn’t looking at her; his face was turned to the sea. The wind caught his jacket collar, tugging at it slightly, and his fingers had dug themselves into the sand. She waited, nature whistling around them, and eventually he continued.

“I got lost to the flame,” he said. “My dad’s lighter…I took it down to the garage, where I thought no-one would find me. I said to myself, it’ll just be for a little bit. I needed it to sleep – I couldn’t sleep so good, my brain – my brain just won’t shut up sometimes. And fire…I can’t tell you. It’s so damn beautiful, it’s perfect, it _understands_ me.” He swallowed thickly, his throat the only part of him that moved. “Next thing I know, I’m choking on smoke. I can’t breathe. The fire, she’s reaching out for me, and all I know is I’m being dragged away from it.”

He sighed, closing his eyes. Laurel dared to slide a little closer to him; her hand was still on his arm.

“What happened?” she asked. Mick opened his eyes; they were utterly lifeless.

“The fire had hit the roof,” he said finally. “A neighbour called the fire department; they dragged me out. I was kicking and screaming and coughing up a lung. They tossed me out on the grass and tried to get upstairs, but it was too late. It was too late.”

Laurel realised she was crying all over again. Her hand went to her mouth. Mick shook himself a little, gruffly continuing.

“Everybody knew what I’d done,” he said. “I tried to run, but they picked me up at the edge of the county. Delirious, they said. Half-baked from the fire. Dehydrated and starving. Cops tossed me straight to juvie, didn’t even get a change of clothes ‘till I got there. Heard they woke up a district judge in the middle of the night just to get me through the system faster. Cut as many corners as they could. The locals, they hated my family. But damn, they hated me _more.”_

Laurel’s head reeled, her hands kept clenching and unclenching.

“That – that should never have happened,” she said, almost desperately. She’d known the criminal justice system wasn’t _perfect_ – heck, there had been a whole module on the topic in college – but such treatment of a juvenile, who’d just lost his whole family? “Wasn’t there an investigation?”

Mick just grunted. “I was a firestarter, everybody knew that. Didn’t need an investigation. Took my lighter, put it in a bag, called it _evidence._ Hell, I know what I did. They might’ve been bastards, but they were doing what they had to do.”

“No!” exclaimed Laurel, and Mick turned to stare at her. She flushed, but dammit – the law wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t meant to be so _broken!_ He seemed to be reading her thoughts, and he actually chuckled.

“Aw, kid,” he said, and actually scrubbed the back of her head. The movement had enough casual force behind it that Laurel’s head involuntarily tipped forward; she scowled at him and threaded her fingers through her hair, trying to get rid of the damp sand he’d left behind.

“I’m studying law,” she reminded him, and he made a noise of amusement.

“Oh, yeah. Good luck.”

“Thanks!” she replied sarcastically, but then paused. “Wait. Did you mean that?”

Mick grunted. “Sure. Law’s a bitch. Whole system’s fixed so people get screwed everywhere, ‘less their pockets are deep enough. ‘S why I never gave a damn about robbin’ or breakin’ the law. Why obey a broken system?”

Laurel digested this for a moment, opening and closing her mouth. Somehow the topic seemed a lot headier out here, on a Keystone beach at night-time, with a man who’d been personally let down by the system she was studying so hard – very different from elective debate and ethics modules, where everything had a distanced, unbiased stance. Everything seemed so clear in college, even if everything else in her personal life was a mess.

Suddenly, Starling rose up in her mind. The Glades, the homelessness, the sharp rich-poor divide, the practically non-existent middle class. How many kids had she known whose parents had lost their jobs, or their homes? Sure, Laurel had been lucky – both her parents were educated, and her dad was a high-ranking cop. But there had been girls and boys in her junior and senior high school classes with hard faces and harder attitudes, and now Laurel was starting to think that they hadn’t been jerks just for the fun of it.

Maybe some people turned to crime because it was the only way to survive a system that was trying to _kill_ them.

The law only worked if people believed in it.

_“Fuck_ it,” she said, slapping her hand on the ground. She was gonna believe in it – she was gonna believe in it for the sake and benefit of all the people it trampled on. _Fuck_ Metropolis and their stupid shiny job – that wasn’t where Laurel was needed. That wasn’t where she could make a difference. She didn’t want to waste her life –

Her sister’s face rose up in her mind. Her stupid boyfriend’s, too.

It was too easy, far too easy to waste a life.

She blinked, realising that Mick was staring at her, eyebrows raised, and she looked straight at him, raising her own eyebrows.

“I piss you off, or somethin’?” he asked, and Laurel suddenly deflated, rubbing her cheek and resting her elbows on her knees.

“No, no,” she replied. “I just realised you…you’re right. It _is_ broken. But it shouldn’t be, and I…I want to help…”

He started to chuckle. “Aw. You wanna save the whole damn world in one go, huh?”

She rolled her eyes. “Says the guy who just inspired me to try.”

Mick suddenly went quiet, and she looked at him curiously. His frown deepened in his face, his brows pulled down low, but Laurel didn’t think he was angry – more like he was calculating, or dissembling her words. She smiled faintly and put a hand over his.

“Yeah, you,” she said. “What happened to you shouldn’t have happened. And if I can help justice be done, and done _right,_ I’m going to do it.”

His face darkened and he pulled his hand away. “I know what I did,” he said, voice harsh. “I killed my family.”

“You were just a _kid,_ Mick –”

“Don’t make excuses for me! _I know what I did!”_

Laurel sat back, eyes wide at the sudden outburst, at the ugly twist of his mouth and the fierce look in his eyes. His hand clenched again, buried in the sand.

“I know what I did,” he repeated. “I set that fire. I let it take me. And my family died. There’s no getting around that, kid.”

And then Laurel did something really stupid, and crazy. She rolled on her knees, grabbed the front of his shirt with two hands, and yanked him forward, making sure he was looking her dead in the eye before she started talking to him.

“Listen here, mister,” she said, sharply. “You. Were. A. Kid. And you _fucked up,_ and your family died, and that’s not okay. But you _know_ that already, _that’s_ not the problem! _The justice system should not have failed you._ You didn’t ask for it to happen! It was a horrible accident!”

“Stop making excuses!” he snapped, grabbing her hands. She held on, even when his fingers tried to pry her off.

“If my sister came back from the dead –” she started, and then her own voice choked her off. Mick froze, and she swallowed. “If she walked out of the sea, right now, I know what I’d do. I’d scream and cry and be so, so thankful – I’d be angry _later,_ sure, but if she was _here?_ Right now? I’d _hold_ her, I’d never let her go! And that’s what’s real!”

Laurel’s hands were shaking; her fingers were finding it hard to grip Mick’s shirt. His hands still covered hers, bleeding warmth back into her freezing appendages.

“Something _really bad_ happened,” she said, voice shaking. “Are you going to have to pay for that for the rest of your life? When do you start owning your own _future,_ Mick?”

He sighed as a response, and Laurel found herself being tugged forward, gently wrapped in his large arms and pressed against his chest in a surprisingly warm and soft hug.

“Oh,” she said, quietly, and she sank into him. He sighed again.

“Aw, kid,” he said. “Hell. I got twenty years on you, give or take. I’ve found my kind of peace. You don’t need to save me.”

“I’m not _trying_ to save you,” she protested, but she was already crying again. “It’s just not _fair._ Everything’s broken.”

“It was always broken, sweetheart,” he replied. “Realisin’ that is part of you growin’ up.”

There was silence for a few moments as Laurel struggled not to cry, and Mick gave her the privacy and the shelter of his arms. But eventually he exhaled slowly, and started talking again.

“Look, if it makes you feel any better, I’ve had therapy,” he said gruffly. She moved her head until she was looking up at him.

“You have?” she said, voice hoarse, throat sore from the effort of holding back tears.

“Sure. I mean, it was mandated. And a lot of them were assholes. But one lady was nice enough. Told me my pyromania was just brain chemicals – something I could channel. It didn’t have to control me. I’d win some battles, lose others. But it wasn’t about _me._ I had a problem. It didn’t mean there was something wrong with _me.”_

Laurel looked up at him until he cracked and glanced down at her. He started grumbling, clearly uncomfortable.

“It took me years to be able to say that,” he said. “And there are some days I wake up and just can’t, days where I know I was born wrong. And other days I know that ain’t right, that ain’t what I should be sayin’ about myself. Those days only come now and then, sure, but I ain’t unhappy. The system screwed me over. It didn’t _beat_ me. It didn’t _win._ I’m a fighter, kid. You are, too.”

She sniffed. “…you think so?”

“Yeah, I think so.” He squeezed her bit, resting his chin on her head. “Look, kid…I know what I did. I killed them. I killed my whole family ‘cause I couldn’t control myself. That’s not something I can just ignore, and say, _yeah_ – if I live a good life, that’ll make up for it. There’s not a damn thing I can do to make up for it. Some sins can’t be forgiven; that’s what I know.”

“Mick…” she said miserably, but he squeezed her again.

“Lemme finish. I gotta own myself, kid. That’s what I’ve learned. I own my actions, I own my future. I own my problems with fire. And sometimes the fire wins, and I take another knock. That’s just how life goes. You get knocked, sometimes. Like you.”

“Like me?” She twisted up to look at him, but he was staring out at the sea.

“Yeah, kid – like you. Your sister and boyfriend are cheating, and then they get killed. And you just go ahead and finish law school. Yeah, you know what you’re about. Life might’ve knocked you around, but I’ll bet you can hit it back twice as hard, huh?”

Laurel sniffed loudly, unable to look at him anymore; her face creased up and she pressed it into his chest, trying to make her feelings disappear.

“I just…” She swallowed, trying to find the words. “I just can’t seem to understand it. I don’t know – it just happened so _fast._ I wake up one morning and she’s _gone._ She’s _gone._ And what would I even say, if I did get a chance to say goodbye? All there is, all that’s left is an empty grave and a funeral we had to cancel because we _couldn’t go._ Nothing. There’s nothing left. It’s too _hard –”_

Her shoulders began to shake again, and Mick, apparently instinctively, tightened his arms around her. They sat that way for a moment, in the dark with barely any light to see by, as Laurel struggled against tears and Mick remained silent. Then, he spoke.

“We should –” He stopped, his hands clenching on Laurel for a moment, clearly indecisive. She sniffed again, turning her face up.

“What?” she asked. “We should what?”

There was a long pause; Mick was fighting with himself, uncertain of his next words. Laurel couldn’t stand to see it; after all her crying, that Mick couldn’t feel comfortable just _talking_ to her, having his own ideas? She gripped his arms.

“Tell me,” she said. “Mick, you can tell me. What should we do?”

Mick hemmed a bit more, but eventually spoke, each word begrudgingly pulled from him, like he was embarrassed to even speak out loud.

“We should have a funeral,” he said gruffly, and Laurel blinked.

“…like, here?” she said, a little confused. “Mick, this is a beach, not a graveyard. How –”

She stopped when his hands flexed again, and he looked up and away.

“There’s a graveyard, here,” he said. “We make one. Like they do sometimes, like the Vikings did.” Laurel’s mouth slowly dropped open, and Mick added: “Only parts of history class I remember are the bits with the _fire.”_

“Mick –” she spluttered. “We can’t just –”

“Sure we can.”

“But – that’s – these are _expensive –”_

“Aw, hell, kid – all of ‘em have insurance. If they cared about their boats that damn much they’d’ve put ‘em in private storage.”

Laurel tried to find some way of saying, _we can’t do it because it’s against the law,_ but couldn’t come up with anything that wouldn’t make Mick burst out laughing right in her face. Her struggle clearly showed on her face, because Mick just snorted and, keeping an arm around her shoulders, pulled her to her feet. Gathering up her shoes, he then began to lead her to the boats.

“C’mon,” he said. “Some wrongs can’t be made right. But we’re allowed to be human, right? We’ll make our own goodbyes.”

Laurel couldn’t disagree, somehow, so she let herself be pulled closer, stepping into her shoes and then up onto the pier and following Mick as he cased the yachts, searching for the perfect boat to set on fire.

_Sara had died on a boat –_

Sara had died in water –

They’d be putting fire on the water. They’d be taking their goodbyes back from the ocean. Legs shaking, Laurel wandered away from Mick, right to the very end of the pier, where the edge of the water was almost seamlessly black, still nearly invisible despite her proximity. She could hear the insistent slap of it against the hulls of the boats; hear them knocking together like old wind chimes as the water pulled and pushed them apart, ever so gently. There was a boat right at the very end, slightly separate from the others; it didn’t look any different from the others besides its size. It was less ostentatious, a little outdated.

_Retro,_ said Sara’s voice in her ear, sarcastically drawing out the ‘o’. Laurel could just about make the scratched name on the side, peering closely to read the words.

_The Free Birds Fly,_ the name read.

“Mick,” she called, and she scarcely knew where her voice came from; it didn’t sound like hers at all. “This one.”

Mick abandoned his own search and ambled over, giving the boat a critical eye over before grunting in satisfaction.

“That’ll do,” he said. “Odds are it’s abandoned, if that’ll help your conscience. Paint’s peeling, and that rope is thick with seaweed. Somebody splurged, and couldn’t make repayments. Nice eye, kid.”

“Thanks,” she said, distantly. Her eyes seemed fixed on the way the boat rocked gently against the struts it was tied to. Mick watched her a second before shrugging.

“All right,” he said. “Wait here a sec.”

Laurel hummed noncommittally, lost in the movement of the boat and the sea, while Mick disappeared back to the beach, eventually coming back with two small bottles of liquor and a bunch of unidentifiable accelerant. He set to work with focussed methodology, like each step was part of ritual; the splashing of different liquids over different parts of the boat, the strategic placement of little bundles of flammable refuse, the last reverent gaze he gave the book of matches before he caught her eye. He waited until she nodded, and then he lit all the matches at once – she hadn’t even known you could _do_ that – and tossed the whole thing onto the deck of the ship.

Soft as a sigh, the whole thing went up in flames. Laurel had to jump; she’d never seen _anything_ like that before. So quick, so hot, so seamless, so _colourful._ She looked up at Mick and saw an expression she’d never seen on a man’s face – something like awe. Something like worship. Something like _love,_ but so, so different to anything she’d ever experienced. Laurel wasn’t religious, but that’s what Mick’s face reminded her of; total peace, inside his heart and soul. Then he blinked, slowly, and looked down at her. His expression was soft, open, and Laurel’s breath caught in her chest as he passed her a bottle of liquor and took his own, walking closer to the steadily burning boat, all kinds of red and orange, yellow, blue, _white._ Different shades depending on what was burning, Laurel had never realised there was so much _depth_ to _fire –_

“Danny,” said Mick, and Laurel’s heart froze in her chest, even though her mind didn’t yet understand what he meant. He was stretching out his arm and letting the booze fall out of the bottle. It glugged noisily into the sea, punctuating his words. “Caroline. Susan. James. Davey.”

Her stomach went cold. Reality rushed in; the slap of water, the hiss and flicker of the fire. 

He was listing out the names of his dead siblings. She moved closer to him, holding her own bottle close to her chest, fingers icy around it. Even up close, she could barely make out his next whispered words.

“Dad,” he said. “Mom.”

The liquor emptied out. He let the bottle fall out of his hand; it smacked the water a second later, and they stared down at where it had fallen, the bottle already vanished into the ever-moving darkness of the waters. After a moment, she gently took his hand, and he let out a shuddering breath.

“They weren’t even nice to me,” he said suddenly. “I wasn’t a good kid, but hell – I was quiet. Had a problem with fire, but I was quiet. Ate my greens, picked up my toys. So what if I had a problem with fire? They didn’t need to take a hand to me.” He clutched at her hand suddenly, strong fingers desperately gripping hers. “They were assholes. Why do I miss them? Why do I feel bad?”

“They were family, Mick,” said Laurel, swallowing thickly. “Family’s a complicated thing.”

Mick snorted. “That’s puttin’ it lightly.” He paused, shook his head. “Dunno. Dunno if I can say I’d feel bad if it was jus’ _them._ People got bad parents all the time. Ain’t a kid’s fault, I know that. But my brothers and sisters…I shouldn’ve taken ‘em down with me. Davey was only six months. James hadn’t hit sixteen yet. Caroline was eleven, Danny twelve, Susan thirteen. Just dumb kids. They couldn’t have known I was gonna kill ‘em. They didn’t deserve that.”

Laurel pressed her face into his arm. The heat from the boat was still hitting them strong; the wind had picked up and the flames were getting worriedly big. Sooner or later somebody was going to come down and investigate, she knew, and then there’d be trouble – but she couldn’t bring herself to care. They weren’t through yet. They’d leave when they were done.

“What would you say to them, Mick?” she said. “It’s a funeral. What have you been meaning to say, all these years?”

He paused, frowning as he thought. Slowly he let go of her hand, and he took a short step towards the flaming boat, reaching the end of the pier. He took a deep breath, and squared his shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” he said, simply. “I haven’t lived a good life, I know. In part that’s ‘cause I enjoy the bad things in life, but it’s also ‘cause I know I could work my whole life and not make up what I did to you, so I don’t even wanna try. You’re dead. I can’t live for you. But I’m sorry. I’m sorry you’re dead. You – you deserved better than this. And I hope –” His voice cracked, but he shook his head sharply. “I hope you’re someplace better. You’re someplace now I can’t ever hurt you again. God rest you kids. I’m sorry.”

He swayed a little, and stepped back without protest when Laurel pulled at him gently. He shuddered suddenly, like a cold wind had moved right through him, and then he looked down at her. His face was impassive – but his eyes shone with emotions, burning under the surface.

“Your turn,” he said, and she swallowed.

“Okay,” she said, voice trembling, and she let go of his arm and stepped forward. As soon as she did so, the pier seemed to sway under her feet; her stomach dropped and she found she couldn’t move any closer to the edge. It felt like she was about to pitch right over the side, into the water between the wood and the still-burning boat.

Then, gently, she felt arms around her, anchoring her to the ground. Mick had come up behind her, and now his arms were framing her, his hands resting underneath her elbows so that she could raise up her arm without feeling as though she were about to fall head over heels into the sea.

“Your turn, kid,” he said, quietly, and she choked out a sob. Finally, shaking, Laurel raised her bottle.

“Sara,” she said, and her voice broke. She began to weep, and probably would have let go of the bottle if Mick’s hand hadn’t closed around hers.

“C’mon,” he murmured. “What would you say?”

But Laurel didn’t speak.

She _screamed._

_“How could you do this to me?”_ Tears were blinding her; her body was chilled and too hot at the same time. “How could you, how could you, _how could you?_ What were you _thinking?_ Do you have any idea what you’ve _done?_ Mom and Dad are _splitting up,_ this is _your_ fault, you’re so _spoiled,_ I _hate_ you, I _hate_ what you’ve done to us, what you’ve done to _me!_ I was so happy, why would you do this, why would you _die,_ why are you dead? _Why are you dead?_ Sara, Sara, _Sara –”_

Mick’s arms were the only reason she was still standing upright; she was uncontrollably crying, her whole body shaking, her stomach flipping and her lungs exhausted from trying to suck in air in between sobs.

“Why are you dead, Sara?” she said, throat aching, vision blurred. The fire on the boat was just a smudged orange blur from behind all the tears floating in her eyes. “Sara. _Sara._ We were best friends. We told each other everything. You were _everything_ to me. I loved you so much. I – I _still_ love you. I’d forgive you, Sara. I’d be mad, but I’d forgive you. I just want you to come back, Sara. I just love you so much. You’re my sister, Sara, you’re so, so, so important to me. You don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve this. Oh, _Sara…”_

Mick’s arms tightened around her, and she nearly panicked when he began to turn the bottle in her hands slowly upside-down.

“No!” she said quickly, beginning to struggle. But Mick’s grip was like iron, and the bottle was tipping, whether she liked it or not. Her breath caught in her chest, her tears froze on her face, fear whipped through her as the booze began to gradually drip out.

“Mick, stop –” She tried to pull away, but Mick wouldn’t let her. His hand around hers, he made her start to properly pour the booze out, where it fell in patters onto the invisible sea. “No, no, no, no – Mick – stop – I’m not ready – I’m not ready – I – don’t pour it out yet – _Mick! Mick – **I’m not ready!”**_

But the bottle kept pouring. Laurel collapsed, her legs giving out; now Mick’s arms really were the only thing that was keeping her up. Her crying had gone beyond hysterical at this point; she’d never cried like this before in her life. Her emotions were totally uncontrollable.

“Mick, I’m not ready yet, please,” she managed, barely sensate as the bottle nearly emptied itself. “Mick, Mick – please. _Please._ I’m not ready to let her go.”

“She’s gone, kid,” said Mick, quietly, by her ear. She shook her head.

“No,” she said, shaking her head.

“Your sister’s gone. Sara’s gone. She’s with Danny, and Caroline – with Susan and James and Davey, and my parents. Gone beyond to a place where they’re not scared. Or hurtin’. Where we can’t yell at them. So we need to let ‘em go. ‘Cause draggin’ around ghosts won’t get you anywhere, kid. It’ll only get you into a dark place that’s damn near impossible to get out of.”

Laurel’s lungs were telling her she was hyperventilating. But she stared hard at the remainder of the booze in the bottle; Mick had stopped pouring. His arms were still supporting her, but she was the one that was holding the bottle now.

She could put it down. Drink it. Drinking it sounded good, right about now, she didn’t want to think –

She didn’t want to think about how right he was. She couldn’t run, hide, deny – she’d go crazy. She was so _sick_ of feeling terrible, all the time, with no reprieve. Running from the truth wouldn’t bring Sara back.

But facing the truth was a – a waking nightmare, something she couldn’t escape from. How had life gone so wrong, so bad? How had she lost someone, so senselessly, so cruelly? It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair –

“You’re waiting for me to pour this out, aren’t you?” she said, head aching. Mick sighed.

“Yeah, kid,” he said.

“I have to do it, don’t I?” she said, and her voice cracked again. “I have to say goodbye. I have to let her go.”

“…yeah.”

“How do I do it?” she burst out. “How do I let my sister go? How do I do it, Mick?”

He was silent for a moment, but then he sighed again, deeply; resting his head next to hers, he answered.

“Because you have to,” he said. “You don’t have a choice. The only life you can live is your own. The rest is just…a fantasy. One you won’t survive, one that kills you piece by piece. Trust me.”

Laurel closed her eyes, leaning her head back, trying to borrow his strength. She let a few minutes passed, focussing on her breathing and his breathing, on the power in his arms that could somehow shoulder the horrible mistakes he’d made and still stand strong and confident.

“Okay,” she said. “I trust you.”

And she stepped forward, bottle outstretched. They said nothing as she took a shuddering breath before tipping over the bottle and letting the contents slip out. When it was finally empty, she let the bottle fall – just as Mick’s had. It slapped the water, and when Laurel peeked over the side, there was no sign of it. The fire, ironically, was too bright to see anything besides it.

“Goodbye, Sara,” she said quietly, staring out at a sea she couldn’t see. They stood there, together, listening to the ocean move against itself. The boat they’d set on fire was drowning out the sound of the waves; it was hissing, crackling, roaring all at once. She took in a deep breath, filling her lungs with cold air, and let it out slowly. The process repeated until the pressure in her head lessened, and she didn’t startle when Mick leaned past her and unhooked the boat. For a moment, the waves almost pushed it closer to them, and Laurel got a blast of heat across her whole body – but then physics reasserted itself, and slowly but surely the boat was pulled out to sea, further and further. The fire was like a beacon, strong and unrelenting, and as it got further out Laurel felt the strangest sensation in her heart – like she was connected to the boat by a piece of string, and it was growing thinner and thinner the farther away the boat travelled.

Mick pulled her back, gently, but it was enough. The boat became a small glow in the distance, and something inside Laurel’s chest snapped and flooded her with icy-coldness. She fell back against his chest and closed her eyes. Neither of them said anything, but Mick’s arms came around her, shielding her from the cold – inside and out – and eventually…she started to come back to herself. A little bit of warmth bled back into her heart, and slowly but surely, she found she could move again. Mick released her, gently squeezing one shoulder.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Don’t know,” she replied. She felt sort of…hollowed out. Tired. It wasn’t an emotion she could define. “Are you?”

“…I will be. Beer?”

She sighed and leaned into him as they began to slowly walk away from the pier, leaving behind the whispering dark sea and the disappearing boat. She could almost pretend that the boat would never go out, would never be discovered; it would simply go on, and on, and on, always burning, always existing as a reminder that Sara – her sister, and Mick’s family – had lived. They had been _real._

And they were remembered.

But now, that’s where they belonged. In a memory. And Laurel – Mick, too – had their lives to lead. Because life went on – it was a _thing,_ like the sea. It didn’t mean to hurt them, it simply _was._ It’s not that it didn’t care; it _couldn’t._ It didn’t even know they were suffering. 

She couldn’t hold onto that hurt, and letting it go might be as difficult as prying off one of her limbs with her bare hands. But, for the first time since the accident, Laurel was beginning to think that maybe – just _maybe_ – she was strong enough to do it.

She’d survive. She’d keep living. She’d keep _fighting._ And just like that, she made her decision.

“I’m not going to take the job in Metropolis,” she said. Mick glanced down at her, raising his eyebrows.

“Good,” he said. “You’re too good for those stuck up assholes.”

She snorted, shaking her head with a smile. “You really don’t like Metropolis, huh?”

Mick grunted. “They think they’re hot shit. Like they’re better’n everybody else. But they’re not. Just a shinier Gotham.”

“Keystone’s where it’s at, huh?” she said, grinning and nudging his side. He chuckled.

“Nah, one-horse town, and a shithole to boot,” he said. “Central’s all right, though. The people seem to really _try_ in Central, yanno? What about your place?”

Laurel opened her mouth to answer, but got caught in thought. What kind of place was Starling? Really? Did the people try, or was it all shiny lies like Metropolis, or barefaced hypocrisy like Gotham? The open violence of Hub City, the apathetic attitude of Coast City?

“It’s…a little bit of everything, I think,” she hazarded. It kind of was – the rich were hypocritical narcissists, the poor were angry, the middle class were apathetic. People kept trying to make the place better, and it only got them killed, which in turn enforced everyone’s belief that the city – and its people – couldn’t be saved. Starling was like – it was like –

“It’s kind of like a dog that’s been kicked so many times it can’t remember any time it was ever loved,” she said suddenly. “It can’t even remember that love is a thing. Starling City’s the _underdog._ Beaten, but still proud, still ready to fight.”

She glanced over at Mick to see him watching her, a faint grin on his face.

“That so?” he said. “You ready to fight, kid?”

She smiled; hard and sharp, her speciality, cultivated after long sessions in moot court and dull meetings with colleagues who hadn’t, for some reason, thought she was a force to be reckoned with.

“Hell yeah,” she said, locking her arm in with is. “Let’s get a drink. And after that, I’m gonna save the whole damn world. One person at a time.”

He laughed and let her drag him along, away from the beach, the gritty sand and the cold wind, towards lights and life and the _future._

She was gonna go back to Starling. She’d take that position she’d seen advertised in the CNRI, which she knew wouldn’t be filled because no-one wanted to hope anymore and even the people living in the Glades had given up on themselves. Well, _she_ hadn’t given up – not on herself, not on them, and not on her city.

They’d better watch out. Laurel Dinah Lance was about to light. It. _Up._

Mick stopped short suddenly and she almost tipped over with momentum. She looked up to see him frowning, and he began rummaging around in his pockets for something, eventually pulling out a messy bundle of what looked like white tags, weighed down with white clay. Then he turned and started searching the darkness for something.

“Ah,” he said, and then he pulled out his lighter, setting the flame to the lump in his hands. He lobbed the whole thing into the distance, where it landed with a soft thump. She stared.

“Um, Mick…what…”

The box of fireworks – the whole reason they were even on the beach in the first place, that she’d somehow managed to completely forget about – exploded.

It really, seriously, _exploded._ She’d never seen anything like it before – it was violent, ear-piercingly noisy, _bright._ Different rockets shot up into the air, and she shrieked when one came careening too close to her. She jumped behind Mick and grabbed him, and he let out a deep, contented sigh.

“Okay,” he said. _“Now_ we go.”

Laurel stared over her shoulder, wide-eyed, as he began to lead them away. The cacophony didn’t seem to be dying down – if anything, it seemed to be getting _more_ violent –

“Uh,” she said, and Mick began ushering her a little more insistently.

“Gotta walk faster than that, kid,” he said.

“Mick –”

“These fireworks are _really_ illegal. Faster, c’mon.”

“Oh my _god –”_

“Better off watching from a distance. Let’s go.”

Laurel let off a peal of laughter as the fireworks set off chain reaction after chain reaction, shooting into the air and across the sand, peppering the area with refuse and smoke and searing magenta, cerulean, gold, silver, white, purple –

“Mick, this is _awesome!”_ she exclaimed, even as he basically shoved her into the car.

“Yep,” he agreed, getting in the other side and starting up the engine. “Cops’re here.”

_“What?!”_ Laurel twisted in the back, seeing the faint blue lights in the distance. “Oh my god. We’re so dead. Is this why you wanted to rush?”

“Yeah. That and I nearly lost an eye from standing too close to a firework, once. Buckle up.”

“Buckle _up –”_ She complied, hitting the back of her seat as Mick took off sharply. “Ugh! Mick!”

“Never let it be said I can’t show a lady a good time,” he replied, swerving sharply. Laurel banged against the car door, and began to laugh.

“This is insane!” she said, trying to twist in her seat to see out the back window. Mick reached out and shoved her down.

“Keep your head low,” he said. “They don’t need to know there’s two of us.”

“Where are we going?!” She tried to hunker down in her seat, and suddenly got the urge to giggle despite the seriousness of her situation. Seriously. She was a _lawyer_ (well, almost) and now she was in a car chase, after setting off illegal fireworks, stealing a boat, and setting it on _fire!_

…this night was _awesome!_

~~~~~~~~~~~~

They took the scenic route, only partly because of the cops on their tail. Mick took her around the edge of Keystone, driving past shiny hotels and dark parks, closed boutiques and open nightclubs. Life was everywhere, even in the empty streets, and Laurel found herself laughing more often than not, letting the window down and pretending to shriek when Mick took a corner too hard on purpose. He was grinning too, obviously egging her on as the cops dwindled away and the normal, easy quiet of the city at night time began to filter in instead.

Eventually, though, he turned another corner, and they were back at her hotel. He just raised his eyebrows at her, thumbing at the front doors.

“Your stop, kid,” he said, and Laurel rolled her eyes, slipping out of the car and walking over to his side, tapping on his window until he lowered it, and then relaxing on the roof of the car, smiling down at him.

“I never thought a car chase would be…fun,” she admitted. Mick grinned.

“Felt like living, didn’t it?” he said, and Laurel’s smile widened, even as she tried shaking her head. She reached out and gripped his hand.

“Thank you,” she said, quietly, and Mick squeezed her fingers a bit.

“Take care of yourself, kid,” he replied, and Laurel nodded.

“I will,” she said, and Mick smiled – not a smirk, an actual _smile_ – and pulled his hand away. He nodded to her, once, and then he pulled the car away, and without glancing back, he drove off. Laurel watched it disappear in to the distance, and when it was gone, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Then she let it out, taking another breath. She repeated this until she felt she could open her eyes again – it was still dark out, but the darkness was muted against the soft yellow of the streetlights, and the sharper whiteness of hotel behind her. She listened carefully – there was the slight sound of traffic, almost non-existent at this time of night, and some background noise from the hotel behind her. Piano music. Chatter. The swish of the automatic doors.

She couldn’t hear the sea at all.

Suddenly satisfied, Laure smiled in the direction that Mick’s car had disappeared in, and then she turned around and went inside.

It was time to face the _future._

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written over the course of ten days, about half of which was spent suffering through a headcold, increased work responsibilities, a bus strike, and shit weather (thanks, sinuses!). So...apologies for any inconsistencies - I've tried proof-reading it twice!
> 
> I didn't mean for it to be so long, but...this tends to happen with my stories. Stuff just ends up needing to be said, and taking up a heck of a lot of wordcount saying it. Plus, I like proving to myself that I can finish what I've started, to hell with how hard it is. And it got really hard in places! It was a real challenge, and fun to write (even through all the angst...).
> 
> Hope you've enjoyed it! If you have any questions about my stories or writing, feel free to drop my a message, here or at my tumblr (same name). See you again! :-)


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